


Not Wisely But Too Well

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Series: Too Well [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Family, Love, M/M, Nipple Sensitivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-10
Updated: 2009-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When baby Alfred begins to teethe, Arthur discovers an almost unbearable physical sensitivity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Wisely But Too Well

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [The Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com). Not traditional shota and not tagged as such--but Alfred is a (blissfully unaware) baby here.

The sobs have been wracking little Alfred's body non-stop for so long that Arthur is amazed the child hasn't worn himself out with all the energy it's taking; Arthur is exhausted just from watching and listening to him, from feeling the spasms as he holds Alfred.

"There, there," he says for the umpteenth time. As with each time before, the words and the accompanying bounce do little to hush Alfred, but Arthur says them again anyhow: "There, there now." When the fit had started, Arthur tried following tradition and conventional wisdom by letting Alfred cry himself out—but he cannot bear to listen to the boy's tears. It isn't the noise that bothers him but the tone and pitch, the utter and abject misery. So Arthur had picked him up. He'd checked Alfred for fever, tried feeding him, changing him—and Alfred had cried through it all.

Arthur's brow furrows as he looks at Alfred now. He looks into blue eyes too-bright with tears that are spilling out over skin, normally such a beautiful pale, now flushed a deep pink; those eyes look back at Arthur, fixed on Arthur's face in inarticulate entreaty.

"There, there, Alfred my boy," Arthur says helplessly.

Another wail, higher up the register and marred by hiccoughing pockets of breath, escapes Alfred. Arthur brushes away the newest tears with his thumb. It's a futile gesture; more tears are already coursing down Alfred's cheeks as Arthur lowers his hand, but he doesn't know what else to do, and he must do something for his charge.

He peers into the wet eyes turned on him. "What's wrong, love?" he asks, even though he knows he won't get a response. He longs for the days ahead when Alfred will have language, not just for all the conversations they will have—and Arthur is very much looking forward to those—but so that when something is wrong, Alfred will be able to tell him exactly what it is. And Arthur will be able to fix it.

Again he lifts a hand to Alfred's face, this time to wipe away a thick strand of drool. When his thumb brushes the corner of the child's lip, Alfred turns to mouth it, his sobs subsiding. As soon as Arthur lets his hand drop, though, Alfred bursts into tears.

Experimentally, Arthur touches his mouth again, and again the weeping eases. Gently, Arthur draws down Alfred's lip. He runs the pad of his finger over Alfred's lower gum—and yes, there it is: the telltale bump of Alfred's first tooth, still beneath the surface but getting ready to push through.

The ache in Arthur's chest is washed away by the relief that floods through him. "You're starting to teethe, Alfred, that's all." Arthur smiles into the face looking up at him. He feels an idiot for not having thought of it before, but now that he know what the problem is, he can do something about it.

The crying starts again when Arthur has to take his finger away from Alfred in order to rummage one-handed through the kitchen cupboard, but the search is quick as can be and in a moment he's rubbing the wax gum stick against Alfred's lips.

The sobs slow once more and a curious little hand comes up grasp the stick. Arthur relinquishes his hold on it and watches Alfred try to aim it into his open mouth. Alfred's face starts to scrunch in frustration after two failed attempts, so Arthur gives the stick a helpful nudge. He smiles as Alfred's mouth closes on it.

In the next moment, Alfred stiffens, flings the gum stick to the floor, and begins to cry again.

"Oh, honestly, Alfred!" Hand cupped 'round the back of Alfred's head to support it as he leans down, Arthur cradles the child to his chest and bends to retrieve the wax stick.

A jolt goes through Arthur as Alfred latches on to his nipple.

Arthur's fingers tighten briefly in Alfred's hair before he relaxes. It doesn't hurt, of course; it simply took him by surprise.

He picks up the teething stick and wipes it on his shirt tail as he straightens. "There's a good lad," he says, easing Alfred back and offering the stick to his mouth.

Obediently, Alfred opens wider for it—and then rears back, body stiffening, eyes squinting as his face scrunches and turns away; a tiny fist knocks the stick to the floor again. Arthur feels the tension gather in Alfred's body, the stuttered gulping and hitching of his breath as he gears up for another round of tears. His little fist unclenches, then closes again around a handful of Arthur's shirt.

"Shh, shh, no," Arthur soothes hopefully. But Alfred only takes a deep, shaky inhale, and Arthur knows the first in this next volley of wails is imminent. He doesn't know if either of them can survive another onslaught.

In desperation, he brings Alfred to his chest again. There's a false start as Alfred gets a mouth of shirt alone; then Arthur guides him, and Alfred latches on again.

Like magic, all the tension drains from the little body in Arthur's arms. As he mouths the nipple, Alfred's hand opens and closes around the fabric of Arthur's shirt, never entirely letting go.

"That's what you want, is it?" Arthur is bemused. He knows Alfred isn't hungry because he offered Alfred a bottle before, and it only met the same fate as the wax teething stick, flung to the floor. Besides, even though he's not getting any milk for his efforts, Alfred seems content with this.

Arthur smiles down at the top of Alfred's head, tilting his own so he can see more of Alfred's face. "You just wanted me, then, did you?" he murmurs, stroking the soft, golden hair. Love for the boy fills him, swelling his heart.

With a shock, Arthur realizes it isn't just his heart that's swelling. As Alfred continues to mouth him through the shirt, Arthur tries to ignore the heat in his cock, the way that heat seems, impossibly, to be thickening his very flesh.

 _What in the seven seas is wrong with you?_ he demands of himself, but finds that he has no answer; at least not one he cares to articulate.

He pushes these new thoughts out of his mind. But when he gently pulls Alfred back, when tears threaten the blueness of the eyes looking at him and a furrow wrinkles the flawless skin between them, when the body in his arms shudders as a fresh sob wells up in it, Arthur does the only thing he can: he unbuttons his shirt.

He's not quick enough to stop the tears from starting, but as soon as opens his shirt and brings Alfred in against his bared chest, as soon as that little mouth finds Arthur's nipple again, the tears stop. Peace suffuses Alfred's body.

Peace is not the word Arthur would use for the state of his own body. As Alfred's mouth, so soft, so wet, so warm, closes around his nipple, the tendril of a thrill shoots down to coil in Arthur's balls, connecting them to his nipple.

Alfred's mouth, though small, coaxes Arthur's nipple erect with a strong and exquisite suction. Arthur's breath catches as Alfred bites down; and then Arthur holds his breath to listen to the soft, wet, little grunts that begin to emit from Alfred as he works the nipple.

Arthur closes his eyes. Each grunt, each lick, each bite of that tooth-to-come travels the thrill-tendril to Arthur's balls, coiling heavier and heavier.

When Alfred shows no sign of slowing, Arthur decides to rest his feet, and goes to the sofa. Instead of sitting, he lies down; the more relaxed he is, he reasons, the more relaxed Alfred will be. Following that same logic, he loosens his breeches—not to touch himself, just to be comfortable.

Still mouthing the nipple, Alfred lies on Arthur's naked torso. Arthur curves his arm to tuck Alfred's feet up, well above Arthur's waist. With his other hand, Arthur soothes along Alfred's spine, then moves up to pet that golden hair as he listens to the lullaby of his boy's contentment, feeling the ease in his body even as the tension swells in Arthur's own.

Arthur's fingers drift from Alfred's hair, down his nape, down along his arm to his chubby little fingers. Reflexively, those fingers wrap around Arthur's forefinger, holding on as Arthur flexes it.

Arthur looks from Alfred's fingers to the child's face. Alfred's eyes are open as he gnaws lightly on Arthur's nipple; as if sensing Arthur's gaze, Alfred shifts his own to meet it.

The attention to his nipple is starting to hurt a little, but the new tendrils of pain only makes Arthur's cock jump and swell more. His hips rise off the sofa, though he tries to control the movement before it can disrupt Alfred.

Alfred lifts his head and gurgles a smile at Arthur; Arthur returns the smile warmly. Alfred puts his head down on Arthur's chest, and Arthur pushes away a sharp, dark feeling that he might identify as disappointment, if he cared to examine it.

Then Alfred drags his face against Arthur's chest as he turns his head; Arthur feels soft lips sweep over his skin—and then they close around his nipple once more. A moan rises up from the back of Arthur's throat.

Alfred's fingers are still wrapped around Arthur's forefinger, convulsing in counterpoint rhythm to his mouth. Arthur shifts to rest his hand over his other nipple, and then extracts his finger from Alfred's. Alfred's hand lies flat on Arthur's chest; then his fat, sweet little fingers find the nub.

 _Please_. Arthur closes his eyes. _Please forgive me. Please, oh!, oh fuck, please,_ please _, this, please…_ More tendrils of thrill vibrate through him, faster, hotter, thicker; the thrills uncoil to spiral up from his balls through his cock; heavy heat fills him, floods him; he's filled full to overflowing—and then, _please, God and Crown, please,_ all that heat spills out of him, as wet as Alfred's earlier tears; thicker.

Blissfully oblivious, Alfred continues his teething. Arthur does his best to control the aftershocks that ripple through him, concentrating on slowing his breathing. Gradually Alfred's breathing slows as well, deepening into slumber.

Arthur's hand barely touches Alfred as he caresses the boy's hair. Too many emotions war within him for him to be able to sort them out, or to want to. As he lies there with Alfred, feeling the easy rise and fall of Alfred's chest against his own, the drift of Alfred's restful breath across his chest, one emotion finally disentangles from the chaos inside Arthur:

"Love you, my dear Alfred," Arthur murmurs closing his own eyes against a bright wetness. "Love you."


End file.
